The ache in my chest is sudden and vicious.
"Stop it," I say, but it comes out shaky.
Liam softens. "I'm serious, Brie. He's not what you think."
A tense silence settles between us.
"Maybe I don't care what he is," I say, though the words shake, giving away the lie.
Liam sighs again, long and patient. "You're still angry about the accident. It's okay. Just…don't write him off. Promise me?"
He's wrong. I'm not angry about the accident. I'm angry about everything else—about the way Asher spit that he didn't love me and that I was just a little girl. About the way that he's spent every damn minute of the last five years trying to prove it. But I can't tell my brother any of that. "Fine. I promise," I say instead.
"Good. Now eat something and go the fuck to sleep, or you'll be useless in the morning."
I hang up and sit for a long time, my phone clutched to my chest. I stare at my own reflection in the window, at the shadows under my eyes, and the stubborn tilt of my chin. I want to believe Liam, I do. I want to believe there's a human heart under all that steel and cruelty, that everything he says and does is just armor because he's been through hell and doesn't know how to survive it and be soft at the same time.
But hope is a poison, especially where Asher is concerned. I know that better than anyone.
I slide the phone onto the couch and bury my face in the blanket, letting the city noise drift in, a lullaby for the lost. I close my eyes and will myself to sleep, knowing that Asher will hurt me again tomorrow.
And I'll let him.
Because as much as I hate him, as much as I want to be free of him, there's some part of me that loves him just as much. And that part desperately wants to know how far he'll go and what he'll do when he finally runs out of armor.
Maybe I want to see him break. Or maybe I want to be the one who breaks him.
I'm not sure I even know anymore.
Chapter Five
Brielle
Tuesday is a lesson in humiliation.
I arrive at the office early, hoping to beat Asher to the punch so I can pretend I'm redoing his stupid spreadsheet and ignore whatever inane task he wants to torture me with. Unfortunately, he's already standing by the window with a mug in his hand, staring out at the city.
He doesn't even look up when I walk in. He just sips his coffee and flicks through emails like I'm not even there. I should be annoyed, but all I can think about is the way he tasted yesterday and the bruises he left on my knees.
I'm still mad as hell that he didn't let me come. He told me he'd know if I touched myself, and part of me was convinced he actually would. So convinced, in fact, that I couldn't get myself off.
We don't talk, not even after he takes his seat behind his desk. The silence is a raging war, with each of us trying to outlast the other.
I'm almost relieved when the monster I know finally rears his head. He decides to put the plug in right in the middle of a conference call. And just like yesterday, he makes sure I'm drenched before he does it. The whole time, he keeps talking on the call like he's staring at spreadsheets instead of my ass.
By the time he finally lets me up, I'm ready to murder him.
And then there's the elevator after lunch.
I'm alone inside, trying to keep my shit together on my way back up, when the doors grind open on the twenty-first floor. Asher steps in, so close his blood-red tie brushes my arm. I expect him to ignore me, but he smirks at me like the devil.
"What?" I growl as the elevator ascends.
He doesn't say a word. He just turns, hitting the stop button with a knuckle.
The elevator shudders to a stop between floors. The sudden stillness is deafening.
He crowds me against the chrome wall, the static from his suit setting my nerves on fire.
